


Busy

by Emphysematous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bondage, Consensual Thramsay, M/M, Public Humiliation, total immobilisation, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 14:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emphysematous/pseuds/Emphysematous
Summary: A folder for mini-fics, snippets, flash fics and other writings too short to merit their own posting. All will fit in with LelithSugar's consensual Thramsay AU: Bloodied Up! This features consensual, mutual power exchange and negotiated kink, hidden under the guise of Theon being held hostage to the continent's most notorious sadist. Tags will be updated as relevant.1) Some total body immobilisation and public humiliation for Theon. What a lucky boy.





	Busy

Theon grunts as Ramsay lifts him bodily off the table and heavs him up onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, balancing him precariously. Theon may have done more to help stabilise his position had Ramsay not spent the better part of two hours methodically and painstakingly binding him completely immobile with length after length of rope. Theon had been tied in various ways many times, but he’d never before felt quite so completely restrained and vulnerable as right at this moment.

His arms were bound behind his back from elbow to wrist, with further loops around his chest and abdomen for good measure. His legs were similarly joined, knee to ankle, with his feet pulled up behind him with a coil that ran under his arms, around his neck and back down. If he relaxed his legs, he was choked. His thighs already burned with the effort of holding the pose. Ramsay had allowed him to keep his trousers - though not his shirt - but had carefully cut out the backside, leaving his arse on display. He had finished the job with cotton and wax plugs in his ears, a large wad of cloth in his mouth and a strip of black fabric tied around his head, over his eyes. 

And now he was being carried… somewhere. He fought down a mild sense of panic. Ramsay would look after him, he knew that. But not knowing where he was or how many people might be about added an extra edge to the game of Ramsay-tortures-Reek that they were playing. They’d certainly left Ramsay’s rooms, and had gone down far more steps than Theon remembered there being between his floor and the ground level. Ramsay’s bootsteps had echoed off the stone hallways for much longer than it took to reach doors to the kennels, or the stables or the barn. Occasionally, Ramsay had nodded cordially at someone, with a pleasant “morning”, or “good day”, as if it was perfectly normal to be carrying around a human being trussed up like meat for roasting. 

Theon was glad of the rope around his hips, keeping his iron-hard cock tight to his belly.

Slowing to a stop, then a shift in balance and a cold gust of damp air - so they were at an external door somewhere. The footsteps changed from the clear ringing on stone stone to the damp slushing of trudging through muddy gravel. Possibly the guard’s courtyard? It sounded too loose to be the stable courtyard. From underneath his blindfold, Theon frowns, trying to work it out. Drizzle falls onto his bare arse and soon his skin is dripping with rainwater that fell too lightly to be proper drops. He hears the bustle of work: footsteps, tool noises, orders given and muttered conversations. His skin flushes red with the heat of his humiliation and want. All those people could see him. See how Ramsay owned him. Used him. Carried him about like luggage, with his backside hanging out ready for him. 

A change in sound from wet gravel to wooden boards, another pause and an awkward sideways hitch at a doorway. It’s too narrow for Ramsay to carry him through on his shoulder and Theon feels the rumble of his displeasure as he half-lowers, half-drops Theon’s helpless body to the wet ground. He falls awkwardly onto his knee and then topples over to his left, strangling himself as he tries to balance his weight and only ends up tightening the rope around his neck. With a choking squawk, he lands on his side with his ear in a puddle, squeezing his legs up behind him so that he could gasp a breath.

He was sure he heard a muffled exclamation from an onlooker. His cock twitches with the surge of his shame. 

Ramsay stomps up behind him and grabs him by the ropes around his chest, under his arms. He’s dragged heavily over the rough and slimy wooden boards and into the relative dryness of… somewhere. And then dropped carelessly. He falls again, chokes himself again, gets harder again. 

Waxed cotton or no, Ramsay’s barked orders to the denizens of the room or shed or whatever it is are very clear: “Out! Get out!” The floorboards thump and vibrate under his body as people - too many to count easily, but not hoardes of them - hurry into the rain outside. The door is slammed shut and Theon feels the thud of its bar being dropped heavily into the keepers. Are they alone? Will Ramsay let him see or speak now? He quivers with uncertainty. With excitement. 

Another grasp of ropes and again Theon is lifted. Part of him has time to marvel at how easily Ramsay can manhandle him - and then he’s dropped and pushed onto a hard wooden surface. He lifts his head to help Ramsay take off the blindfold, but Ramsay just steps away, his footsteps vibrating round the table, coming round to face him. There’s the curt touch of his hand straightening out some of the coils. 

And then nothing. 

Nothing for so long. No movement he can feel through the table or in the air. No sound he can hear through his blocked ears. No light through the cloth over his eyes. The rain on his skin drips away and dries and he lies there, legs aching with the effort of giving himself enough slack to breathe comfortably, in numbing silent blankness. For an eternity. 

At first its exciting. The waiting game was one Theon had introduced to Ramsay at first. The incredible thrill of anticipation. Of being all set up and ready for something and then forced to stew in your own expectations for an age before it finally happens. Patience was not one of Ramsay’s strong suits, but he had quickly learned the efficacy of holding out. Particularly when it came to Theon. 

But this. This is different. He can’t move. He can’t touch himself. He can’t tap his feet or toy with his hair or push grease up into his arsehole in eager preparation. He can’t scratch his various itches, or ease the numbness in his hands or even breathe without concentrating. And he feels so alone. Is Ramsay even there? He’d been sure that he’d felt the footsteps come round the table, but what if that had been a trick of the room? What if he’d been left here? What if he didn’t come back? What if someone else found him like this, trussed up and arse out?  He coughs through the gag, just to make sure he can. A tap, a cough, a grunt, a headshake. Two is yes. Three is no. He can signal. He’s safe. But… if Ramsay isn’t here, then how can he see the signals? Panic coils in his belly.

Or is this how he’s meant to feel? Is he meant to feel abandoned while actually the room is filled with silent watchers, grinning at how he squirms and shifts in his discomfort? How many of them are there? He can hear no breathing, but that means nothing. The room feels fairly warm - is that from all the bodies packed in to watch him? Does he want them to watch him? He coughs again. He has his signals. But... could Ramsay help him? From a room full of witnesses? Is Ramsay still there or has he left him to a room of strangers? Normally a room full of onlookers would have his cock at full attention in seconds - but now? When he’s as vulnerable as this? He wants it as a concept, but the thought of it happening right now makes him feel sick. 

A gasped breath. From above him. And another. A moan. Ramsay’s moan. Ramsay’s here! Relief floods through him like the shudders of orgasm and he chokes himself again until he gets his feet back up to his backside. Ramsay is here. Breathing hard. Moaning. Theon knows that noise…

A splash of cold hot liquid on his face. A brush of soft hard skin against his cheek. That smell of musk and fresh sweat and horse and leather. A scratch of coarse hair on his forehead. More fluid, dripping down across the bridge of his nose. Now being smeared on his chin. Now on his chest. 

The thought of Ramsay standing over him, pumping at his cock until he spills all over his bound captive momentarily blanks out everything else from Theon’s mind. He chokes himself again. Strains to open his mouth around the cloth in his mouth. Fights to get his tongue out to lick at the seed on his face. He wants Ramsay’s prick in his mouth, wants to see him, to taste him, to be able to witness this use of his body. Surely Ramsay will release him now. 

But no. More footsteps and Theon is hoisted up again, this time held awkwardly in front of Ramsay’s body as he shuffles across the room. He’s dumped on the floor for a moment. The draught and dampness underneath him suggests they’re at the doorway. Ramsay prods him twice with a toe. Two means yes. In this context, a question: “yes?” 

Theon coughs twice. 

A gust of wet air from the opening door.  Picked up again and carried over the wooden boards, back onto the muddy gravel. This time there are definitely shocked voices. Ramsay grunts a curt “as you were” to someone. Like luggage, and with Ramsay’s seed still glistening cooly - and unmistakably - all over his face, Theon is carried back into the keep. 

He’s so fucking hard. 


End file.
